Ogre-Slaying Now, Chitchat Later
by darcyfarrow
Summary: One: slay the ogres. Two: restore our lands. Three: get me out of here.


It was about the ogres. Of course it was. Why, everyone knows that the legend of Rumplestiltskin _began_ with ogres, his first public appearance as the Dark One being a very simple deal he made with a herd of ogres (simple deals for the simpleminded): make peace with the humans or my magic will tear through you like a tornado through a haystack (he followed the "offer" with a demonstration, his whirlwind making tree-piercing missiles of stalks of hay). The ogres–the smallest of them, eleven feet tall–bent the knee to him then, to his utter delight (he, just five foot six and skinny as the straw he would one day learn to spin into a precious metal). The ogres knelt at his feet and swore fealty (if he'd only known this could happen, he would have kept Hordor around to witness it) and he rewarded them by sending them to a lovely unihabited tropical isle where they could romp in sarongs and peel bananas and play ukeleles all day long, so that the thought of provoking humans never again entered their small minds. And he, Rumplestiltskin the Horrible, led the children home.

So ogres, yeah: they were Rumplestiltskin's red button; everyone knew it, so when ogres attacked North Avonlea, the common cry was "Send for the Dark One!" He might not even require a price: the sheer enjoyment of tormenting ogres might be payment enough. But Sir Maurice, de facto leader of the land when the duke hightailed it to the Highlands, dragged his feet, remembering the bedtime stories his underpaid nanny rocked him to sleep with (no shining knights and fair maidens for this babe; Nanny sent him to the arms of Morpheus with visions of Dark Ones dancing in his tiny head. And let that be a lesson to nobles who underpay their servants.)

But Sir Mo's daughter feared no evil, apparently: she'd heard the same tales Papa had, and begged for more: more adventure, more action, more monsters, and especially, more magic! So when Mo failed to respond to the demands of the commoners, Belle did it for him. Bold, defiant girl (Rumple found her defiance knee-slappingly funny) stood there on her balcony at midnight. Was the girl even aware what the torchlight behind her did to her diaphanous nightgown? Rumple both sighed and snorted, because it had been a very long time since he'd enjoyed a lady's touch, and how the hell was he supposed to keep his mind on business with. . . her. . .in her nightie and on her bedroom balcony calling his name in her very girly voice? Oh, she didn't play fair, that one, and innocent as she was, how much more clever might she be in a year or two when she'd learned a bit more of the world?

Well, value on the copper, eh? For such a big service as ogre removal, plus a perpetual protection plan against pests (someday, Rumple would take delight in learning his new world had a term for this sort of service: a protection racket) the price must be high, and the nobles of Avonlea didn't even have an intact castle to their name (not that Rumple needed another; he had enough hassle maintaining the one). Well, he could, he supposed, bargain a life for a life, test the old knight's mettle. Feed him to a dragon–no, Rumple did that already. Do a snail transformation and–no, been there, done that.

Ah, well. When you've lived three hundred years, you've seen it all. While Rumple half-heartedly looked around the puny estate for something worth trading for, his ear kept wandering to that sweet girly voice calling his name, and his eye kept wandering to that shadowy form lit from behind by fire.

After so many years of dealing, he could read body language just as easily as a ship's captain could read the stars, and just as easily, he could then chart a course. Not uncommonly, those who called his name to ask for one thing–an unselfish thing, so they thought–really wanted something else, something purely for their own benefit. He never gave it to them. What they asked for, they got, thought it usually wasn't what they expected. That was their own damn fault for being imprecise, lazy, shortsighted, dimwitted.

He tapped his foot in annoyance at this girl calling his name. He'd expected something different from her: something that would wake him up, at least. He'd dared to hope for an honest request, though, with ogres at the door, what else would a noblewoman do, but save her people? Just once, though, it would be fun if one of these high-minded types would say what they really meant.

And then, by gods, she did.

"Rumplestiltskin! They say no matter where you are, you can hear your name called. So appear before me, I beseech you, because I wish to make a deal."

He popped in behind her. "Dearie, didn't your governess ever teach you it's not proper to wear your nightie when you're summoning demons?"

"I wan't aware there was a demon-calling dress code. You are the Dark One, I presume?"

Oh, the spirited conversations he could have with this one, if he could find a way to stretch this deal out. He bowed, both repectfully (he did appreciate her nerve) and mockingly (she was a noble, after all, and thus needed to be shown where true power lay. At least, he assumed she did. Even the sweet Snow White could get kind of hoity-toity around lowlifes like him, so why should Milady be any more democratic?). "Rumplestiltskin, at your service" (that is, if it pleases me, he would have liked to add).

"Belle." She dipped a curtsey. Not _Lady_ _Belle_. Hmmm. "Now about my deal."

He pretended to be disappointed. "No groveling? Hand wringing? Teeth gnashing? Clothes renting? Not even a little feet kissing? I am the Dark One, after all."

"Precisely why I assumed you'd prefer to get down to business. You have other things to do, I suppose."

He cocked his head. "I could spare a minute, I suppose, if you have something interesting to say."

"I'm sure your time is much too valuable to be wasted in chitchat." Her auburn hair, loose about her shoulders, swung as she shook her head. Even from a yard away, her hair smelled nice, as if it had been washed today in rose water. Quite soft, it appeared, too. As did her skin. Her blue eyes, though, were sharp as her tongue and her wit.

"Well, business has been rather slow. I wouldn't object to a brief conversation, considering you seem a lady of some intellect."

Hands on her hips, she almost bumped noses with him. "Ogres are on my front lawn, Rumplestiltskin! Ogre-slaying now, chitchat later!"

"Is that your first offer, Milady? Conversation in return for ogre-slaying? You're going to have to do a far sight better before you'll convince me to slay so much as a dragonfly for you." He crossed his arms, but deep in his belly, a laugh was forming.

"Of course not. I want three things: one, remove the ogres from Avonlea and all the neighboring lands, now and forever. Two, repair the damage they've done to our farms, our livestock and our homes."

He pretended to yawn.

"And three, get me out of here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Out of Avonlea, out of this dry-as-dirt life, out of this doomsday betrothal to a man dumb as a bag of rocks. Take me somewhere where I can make my own decisions, have some excitement, some challenge, some magic, before I shrivel up and blow away!" Her hands flew in the air, chasing her galloping thoughts.

"Some. . . magic?" He echoed.

"You know what's expected of a noblewoman in this world."

"At least it's cleaner than the life of a peasant woman. Be grateful for small–"

"Oh, don't give me those old cliches. Can you give me the life I want or not?"

"Oh, aye, the easiest deal I've made in centuries. But the question is, what will you pay for it?"

"Me."

He blinked.

"Oh, not like that, you–you _man_, you!" She huffed. "Scheherazade. You've heard of her."

"Of course. Desperate little thing. Why she didn't ask my help, I'll–"

"Like that, without the beheading part." Belle poked at his chest. "Everyone knows you live in a big old drafty castle alone, not even a dog to keep you company."

"On the contrary." He puffed his chest. "I have a pet. A dove."

"Really? What's its name?"

Rumple looked down at his feet (then hers. She was barefoot. What lovely ankles). "Dove."

"No friends? No family? No neighbors?"

"Of course not. I'm the Dark One."

"Not even wandering strangers dropping in for a cup?"

"Dark One, dearie. Weren't you listening?"

"You must get lonely."

"Once again: Dark One."

"Oh, road apples." She turned up her nose. "You're lonely. And worse, you're bored."

"Oh. Well, aye." The power was shifting ever so slightly. He could take hearts, but Belle could read them, even ones as protected as his.

"You need a now-and-then companion. A conversationalist. A friend. Me."

"Now, whatever would an old sorcerer with all his secrets want with–"

"Secrets?" Her eyes lit. "There. You see? It's a good deal for both of us."

"Nobody learns the Dark One's secrets, my dear."

"Stories, then. Of all your travels, the strange lands and people you've seen." She clasped her hands. "Just picture it: seated beside the fireplace, sipping brandy after a hearty meal–I'm a good cook and you could use a few pounds on those bones. You telling me a story from some exotic place, some bizarre discovery you made, some deal that sparked your imagination. And then, as you grow drowsy with the brandy and a full belly, I'll read you to sleep. I see those bags under your eyes, Rumplestiltskin. You could use a good night's sleep. Now isn't that a great bargain? You get someone to share your stories with, I get fresh stories to listen to. And every night I'll read you a story from one of my books. I have a hundred of them, in a many languages."

"You don't know what you're asking, Milady. To go off with the likes of me–"

"I can guess what people would say. Most of them. Some of them would be envious, especially girls whose lives will dry up like autumn leaves before they've had a chance to step outside the walls they were born into." She bent her head, her hair curtaining her face.

He wanted to touch her shoulder, to offer comfort, but that wasn't within his role, so he renumerated instead, counting on his fingers. "One, ogre removal. Two, restoration of lands and buildings. Three. . . ."

She let him see the desperation in her eyes. "Three, get me out of here."

This was ridiculous. The Dark One made no friends, accepted no companions, let no one into his life, where there was only room for Baelfire. So why was he listening to her?

"I have a hundred stories to read to you. I can cook and sew."

He gnawed on his lip. "It would be forever."

"I know that. None of the villagers, not even my father, would accept me back."

"You may be wiser than your years, Milady."

"You may be younger at heart than your years, Rumplestiltskin."

He sighed. "Can you clean?"

"I'll learn."

He held out his hand to her. "Let's inform your father he may recall the troops."


End file.
